Desert Drive
by SouvenirsFamiliers
Summary: Erik travels through the desert, alone. Even years later, he can't forget what happened on the beach. Cherik, two-shot.
1. Part I

_Author's note: _Or, _A Story in the Style of a Qasida. _A _qasida _is an Arabic poem that follows both a particular meter and a particular story format that is based around a journey through the desert. This is a bit of an experiment, and the two parts are written in entirely different styles.

* * *

_Part I_

He comes upon the settlement when the light is fading into a long red line on the horizon. He can sleep in the open, he doesn't mind, he's used to it, but they have some petrol in an old broken-down truck and he needs it. They laugh at his money, laugh at the stranger on a motorcycle too stupid to buy a camel in this dry, dusty place, and tell him to give them a story instead. He knows their language (knows many languages, but never really thought he'd have to use this one), and they are pleasantly surprised when he replies clearly enough. _A story about what? _

_Love, _they tell him. _No one cannot be touched by a love story. _

So he tells them with the words he knows of blue eyes, of soft brown hair, of broken promises he never had a chance to make. When he has finished speaking, they give him a little water and food and he takes it with his thanks.

_Will you ever see her again? _they ask, a cruel question they already know the answer to.

_No, _he says, and looks at the dirt beneath his feet.

_You have come a long way, _one of the elders says with smile.

_Tired, _he says, and the drawn look in his eyes is from more than endless sun and desert. _I am tired. _He rests a hand on his motorcycle. He knows why they laugh at him, that it needs something rarer here even than water, but it has carried him far and his trust in it is absolute. He has had it longer than the clothes on his back and can feel its roar in under his skin. He thanks them for their hospitality, praises their elders and the strength of their tents, the quality of their horses and camels. It is a politeness and they know what he wants.

_Petrol_, he says in his own language, because he does not know it in theirs. He gestures to what he means. He will not beg, but he has given them their price.

They give the fuel to him, to the sad man with the blue-grey eyes, but tell him to wait until morning to leave. It is a demand, not a request. He is impatient, but he does not argue. He cannot run from his regrets, no matter how fast or far he goes.

_Foolish, foolish man. _

_Maybe I am. _

The thunderstorm breaks and the people rush into their tents. It is the sort of rain that drowns villages and destroys flowers, breaking their stems before they have a chance to fully open. The soil has not felt rain in months. The water is already pooling on the hard-packed dirt and dust floats on it like a film. The ran drenches him and pours down his face, but he doesn't go inside. He breathes through his mouth. The wet dust feels like it's choking him. He unties a blanket from his pack and throws it over the motorcycle, for it is the only kind of protection he can give it.

These people care even less than he does where he is going. He know what it would look like: a metal carcass, newly cleaned with rain and shining in the sun. It will outlast his bones. If he sells it for a camel or runs out of fuel, the end will be the same. No, he will keep going.

_You run from the wrong thing._

_Maybe I do. Maybe I do._


	2. Part II

_Part II_

Erik is lying on the sand and his head is cradled in someone's lap. He knows it's Charles, but he can't open his eyes. His lips are so dry. _Charles, _he tries to say anyway.

"Hello, Erik."

Erik opens his eyes. Charles is holding his head in his lap and stroking Erik's hair softly. It's so bright, and Erik has to squint, but he still can't see Charles's face properly. The sand feels hot beneath his back, but Charles's hands are like a cool breeze. He licks his lips. "I'm hallucinating, aren't I?"

Charles smiles. "Well, yes, but it's not your fault."

Erik closes his eyes and sighs. He can't smell Charles; that's the problem.

"Sorry. I don't know what I smell like."

Erik cracks open his eyes again and squints at him. "I thought I told you to stay out of my head."

"Hmm. I don't think you did."

"Yes, I did."

"Well, this is a hallucination, so what does it matter?"

Erik gives up and closes his eyes again. "You're awfully annoying for a hallucination," he mutters.

"Don't fall asleep, please, Erik." Charles's voice sounds almost panicked. "I know it's warm out, but they'll be there soon."

"No one's coming," Erik mutters at him without opening his eyes. "I'm alone." He frowned; that doesn't seem quite right. "I think."

"I'm here."

Erik bats at the empty air in front of his face. As he expects, his hand hits nothing. "Oh, stop it. Go bother someone else." He thinks he can hear voices, but that can't be right. He's somewhere desolate . . . right, the desert. Somewhere Charles wouldn't follow him.

_I thought you wanted me to follow you. _

"Go away," Erik says, and he's not sure if he's talking to hallucination-Charles or memory-Charles.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Charles murmurs. "You don't have a choice." He bends down over Erik, and Erik can feel his shadow on his face. There are other voices yelling, but they don't matter. Someone jostles him, but he doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't think he can.

He can remember another time when he was on the sand. It smelled like the ocean. It was hot then, too. Someone presses something to his lips and he turns his head away. There's something wet; they're trying to give him water. _No, _he thinks, and he tries to strike out.

"Peace, Erik, peace," Charles is saying. There is something Erik is supposed to say in response to that, but he can't remember what it is. Then Charles is gone.

* * *

When Erik wakes, he is lying in a bed. He opens his eyes and blinks. His eyes are so dry, and his body is so heavy. He feels as though he's slept for a day. His eyelashes scratch his cheeks and he closes his eyes for a moment. He feels dizzy, and he's lying down. That's not good. He fists his hands in the bedsheets to try to keep the world from turning him upside-down.

"Magneto?" someone asks, and Erik's eyes fly open as he turns his head towards the voice. It's Raven – no, Mystique. She looked worried. "Are you okay? Here's some water. We've had you on an IV, but Charles said you'd probably want some water too." She is holding the glass towards him, and Erik looks at it. Something isn't quite right.

He's not wearing his helmet.

_Charles? _he shouts. He curses at himself; of course, he had taken it off in the desert. It had been too hot for the heavy piece of metal.

"No need to yell," Charles's voice calls from down the hallway, and some part of Erik thinks he's still hallucinating. After all, he has no idea where he is or how he got here.

Raven looks incredibly guilty and she presses the glass to his mouth insistently. "Sorry," she whispers, and Erik automatically takes a sip of the water.

Then Charles appears in the open doorway and Raven has to support Erik's head to keep him from choking.

"You're awake," Charles says brightly, and Erik kind of wants to murder him. "I don't suggest trying to speak; your throat's pretty torn up from all the dust you inhaled and the dehydration. I know you must be thirsty, but don't drink the water too fast. It wouldn't be good for you to vomit on an empty stomach."

Erik props himself up on his elbows, even though they feel raw and like they still have sand embedded in them, and _glares_ at him.

"I'm not in your mind," Charles reminds him as he wheels himself a little closer to the bed. "I don't remember any promises to let you kill yourself." There's a dark glint in Charles's eye that Erik doesn't like. He may not be in Erik's head, but he _is _in Erik's hideaway –

Isn't he?_ Where the hell is he anyway?_

"Don't worry, I didn't spirit you away to the school," Charles tells him dryly. "But yes, there's a reason why this isn't familiar. This is neutral territory. It's a house of a friend of a friend of Raven's . . . ?" He looks at her and Mystique nods.

"I found it," she assures Erik. "We're safe here."

_Who? _Erik asks.

"Just the three of us," Charles tells him. "See? You outnumber me."

Erik suddenly feels very alone. "Get me my helmet," he rasps to Mystique. She gives Charles a warning look, but she leaves obediently.

Charles sighs. "Really, Erik?" he murmurs, but it's faint enough that Erik pretends not to have heard. He wheels himself closer, and Erik can see every damn freckle on his nose.

_Damn you, _he thinks, and Charles smiles sadly.

"I had to find you, you know," Charles tells him quietly. "Raven contacted me. You'd been missing for too long and Frost was . . . indisposed. _I _had to find you alone in the desert, dying from heat exhaustion and dehydration because _you had replaced your water with fuel_." Charles hisses the last few words before he pulls himself together. "_Please_ don't do that to yourself again."

"You have no right to ask me for anything," Erik rasps, and his throat feels like it's on fire. "Now get out."

Charles doesn't look surprised; he looks tired. He turns and wheels himself towards the door. _You're not alone, _he tells Erik just as Mystique arrives with the helmet. _No matter how much you might wish it was true. _

Erik takes the helmet in his hands and puts it on his head. Everything is darkness, and silence.


End file.
